


Peace

by Sorry_Bioware



Series: Serendipity [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, JUST, PWP, Rain, Revelations Spoilers, Sorry again, Spoilers, Tent Sex, Well - Freeform, but i tried, but still filth, double warning for that, fooling around on the storm coast, from a post-revelations fic, i also don't know anything about horses, i still don't understand how magic works in dragon age very well, magic sex, not as angsty as you'd think, okay, or as you'd expect, party banter spoilers, slice of inquisition life, sorry - Freeform, technically not sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-11-28 09:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20964269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorry_Bioware/pseuds/Sorry_Bioware
Summary: Spoilers for Revelations quest. Blackwall figures out where he stands.





	1. Chapter 1

Adaar left him to fester alone in the barn for eight bloody days before she deigned to visit him. It began quite unpleasantly, her seemingly a horned monolith, standing at attention in drab black Orlesian formal garb. Backlit by a searing late morning sun, she interrogated him ruthlessly. Aye, he stood his ground, head held high, unflinching, and revealed the whole sordid tale of his life as Captain Rainier. Corrected all the half-truths and outright lies. Evaluated whether or not their fellows could still work with him. Though it was damned hard to meet those glowing eyes.

When he had nothing more to say, they stood in stiff silence. The Inquisitor’s bog unicorn trilled softly from its stable outside, seeking her attentions, but she did not turn to tend to the great beast. Her eyes bored into him.

“I do not appreciate,” she said, very softly, “being accused of corruption.”

Blackwall shifted uneasily at that. Kneeling before her in the throne room, filthy, guilty, shamed, grieving, finally outed in front all of their companions--he had said anything he could think of to bring on a harsh judgement and, hopefully, swift execution. At the time he thought it hadn’t worked: the Inquisitor could have been made of stone for all she responded to his condemnation. 

But afterwards, through the shock of her judgment, when he stumbled up the steps to the throne to ask yet more of her, he had seen it. Her nose had flared and that long throat had bobbed as if swallowing fire at the temerity of his advance. Blackwall was still in chains, his coat and pants unwashed, moving to her before the entire court. Looking at her face, into her eyes, the future warden could see her passion for him teetering on the precipice of defeat. Still he could not stop, and by the hand of the Maker, she had tenderly cupped his dirty cheek and kissed him deeply. 

So. That was that, he supposed. Traitorous murderer Thom Rainier had been claimed by the Herald of Andraste herself, before the Maker and all of Thedas. Truly, that should keep the gossips lounging in Orlais’ many salons tittering for years. 

Lost in the memory, Blackwall jumped at a touch to his face. Adaar had moved closer, staring dispassionately down at the warrior. One large hand idly stroked his beard, pointed nails delicately scratching his chin. He swallowed convulsively, leaning slightly into her caress.

“You have sorely tested me, Serah,” she murmured. “How would you earn back my trust?” 

Andraste’s tits, how could he answer that? This whole situation, his whole bloody life, was a royal cock-up. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to fix it, how to convince her to keep him. “My lady, I do not know,” he replied wearily. 

Looking up at her, Thom could faintly see faint lines of exhaustion raising up the skin below her kohl-darkened eyes, and the slight worry line creasing the deep brown skin of her forehead. A fresh scar bisected the hair of her right eyebrow.

The Inquisitor frowned and stepped away from Thom. Her raised hand returned to knot with the other at the small of her back. “Hm. Perhaps with time, then.” Striding towards the stable to see to her favorite mount, she flicked her horns slightly and called back to him, “Ready yourself, Ser Blackwall. We leave for the Storm Coast at midday. I expect it will be a short trip.” 

“T-truly? Aye, Inquisitor.” Blackwall turned to his things. He had little time to prepare, then.

Filling a pack and donning his armor was quick work. Leaving the barn, Thom stepped into the stables proper, where the strange odor of ozone and rotting flesh met him. Dennet was there, trying to feed fresh crystal grace to the Inquisitor’s undead mount. Bloody waste of an expensive herb, Blackwall thought. Only rarely could the wretched beast be persuaded to eat around the great rusted sword piercing its muzzle, and Maker only knew if the thing actually enjoyed nutriment anyway. It clearly didn’t subsist on anything natural.

Exchanging a nod with the stablemaster, Blackwall moved on to his own horse, a humble Dalish all-bred. She got a treat of her own, and crunched on the small apple happily as he saddled her up and led her out towards Skyhold’s gate. There a scout met him, passing him an oilskin cape, a soft pair of clean socks, and a waxed paper package of rations. Accepting the items, Thom put them in a saddlebag. He carefully ignored the glare he could feel beaming down from Cullen’s command center near the triage tents.

“There’s the big man himself. Feel like I haven’t seen you around much lately,” Varric said from behind him. Thom turned to see Varric, Sera, and Iron Bull, already mounted. They accepted their own packages from the scout, jostling things about in their saddlebags to make room. Blackwall grunted a greeting, then got onto his own horse and looked about at the bustling fortress. It was a clear, warm day in the Frostbacks. Morning frost was beginning to drip off the stone walls of the keep, and several tracks of mud emanated from the persistent puddle in the courtyard. 

Cassandra and Adaar appeared from the direction of the stables, deep in conversation astride their horses. The Vashoth had donned her dragon armor, though she had eschewed vitaar in anticipation of the persistent rains of the Coast. Riding to the front gate, Adaar pulled up short and looked at them. Her face was hard.

“We go to infiltrate a red templar foothold on the Western Peninsula. You know the stakes.” Here Adaar frowned. “Be safe. I would not see you fall to that poison.” Then she was wheeling around and through the gate at a brisk trot. Cassandra followed at her side, and the rest of the party accompanied somewhat more sedately.

He could sense Sera staring at him as they rode down the bridge. “I knew you were hiding something,” she said thoughtfully.

“Sorry,” Blackwall responded gruffly. The knowledge of the lost trust between him and his friend twisted his gut. He fought the urge to look down, instead fixing his gaze stiffly ahead.

“For what? Trying?” A pause. “Better than most ever do.”

Shocked, Blackwall turned to look at her. The elf’s pink tongue had caught between her teeth and she squinted as she scratched the back of her head. 

“Gotta’ ask though, Beardy--You and the Inquisitor still together, yeah? After all that? ‘Cause, if not, I’ve been thinking… I’d like to give her a go,” Sera giggled sweetly. It wasn’t until he felt the breeze on his tongue did the warrior realise his mouth was hanging open. “Inky’s a handful--two of ‘em! I mean, look at her. She’s just so, smooshy. Everywhere_._” 

In a daze, Blackwall slowly turned his head to Varric, seeking help. The dwarf shook his head quickly. Chewing on his lip, tears in his eyes, the man was working hard to hold back a reaction.

She was leering now, gazing in Adaar’s direction. “She’s a leader. She has tension. And I could get it gone_._”

“Oh, Sera,” Blackwall groaned in disbelief, shaking his head. “I do love you.”

"Or do you think she actually prefers your, feh,” her lips twisted, the fingers of one hand making a strange flicking gesture in his direction, “_parts_.” 

“I don’t think he’s packing anything that special in those gray warden drawers,” interjected Bull. He eased his steed closer to theirs. “If the size of his mace is anything to go by, he’s definitely compensating for something.” 

Sera collapsed into snorts against the neck of her dracolisk, jabbing her finger furiously at Bull. “Okay, the second reason that’s funny is: you’re waving a giant sword around!” 

“Besides,” said Blackwall smoothly, tapping the hilt of his weapon over his shoulder, “this isn’t compensation. It’s a counterweight.”

The honks the elf emitted at that could have put gurn mating calls to shame. Her laughter quickly turned to a yelp of outrage, however, as her feisty mount took advantage of its rider’s distraction to careen on its own course away from the group. Bull and Varric were chuckling as well. It was all so strangely... comfortable. This wasn’t at all how Blackwall had imagined his ignoble return to the Inquisition fold. 

Well, he corrected, he hadn’t imagined he’d be returning at all. Then, once again, Adaar had swept in and irrevocably changed his life with nothing more than the force of her will and the backing of fate. 

He looked to the front of the group. The Inquisitor and Cassandra were both peering over their shoulder at the commotion. The seeker had her lips turned down in disapproval at their antics, head shaking. Adaar, however, wore a small lopsided smile. Her golden eyes glinted at him briefly. Then the mask dropped and she turned away from him. All the same, Blackwall’s heart leapt. Void, he was in love with her.

The moment the rugged, uneven terrain of the Frostbacks gave way to the surer footing of the Imperial Highway, the Inquisitor began to drive them hard. This left little room for idle chatter, though Blackwall hardly minded. The emotional strain of conversing with the others had left him drained, even if it had all gone surprisingly well. 

Night had long since fallen by the time they sighted Storm’s Solitude. Unsurprisingly, it was raining, water dripping from the horses’ lathered coats and steaming from their nostrils. The Inquisitor paced her unicorn slowly through camp, face pointed westward. Clearly, she itched to push further tonight, closer to the dwarven thaig where their enemy nested. Sera, however, took no notice, hooting in relief at the sight of tents and leaping off her dracolisk. The reins were thrown carelessly at a passing scout, and she zipped off into the trees to relieve herself. Similarly, Ser Dip emerged from one of Adaar’s saddlebags, dropping to the ground ungracefully and waddling off into the night to work his mischief. 

When a scout bearing the badge of a requisition officer called after her, Adaar’s jaw flexed once. Blackwall knew this to mean the Inquisitor had slipped her tongue between her teeth and begun chewing on it in mute frustration. She called a halt for the night, then dismounted and turned to the agent, who immediately began chattering animatedly and stuffing sodden correspondence into her hands. 

Blackwall shook his head in amusement and led his mare to a tree near the other mounts that seemed to provide some protection from the weather, tying her reigns securely to the trunk. She snuffled warm breaths into his palm hungrily, then peered up at him with doe eyes. Silently promising to have dinner and better shelter set up, he turned and started back to the main camp. Rain and wind sluiced through his hair harshly from this direction, uncomfortably dragging cold locks across his cheeks and neck. Loosening a leather cord from his wrist, Thom tied his hair up and back into a quick knot, then hastened to the Inquisitor’s side. 

The officer was earnestly lecturing Adaar on the value of spider ichor to the Inquisition, pantomiming the proper methods of harvesting fearling innards. Adaar nodded mechanically every few words. Behind her back, her knotted fingers slowly flexed. Thom stifled a chuckle and strode to the vashoth’s side, gesturing at her horse. 

“May I take those reigns, my lady?” 

Humming distractedly and offering up the leads, Adaar flicked a glance down at Blackwall. And then looked at him again, fully this time. Her sharp eyes traced up the revealed nape of his wet neck with interest, then flicked appraisingly to where his mustache dripped rainwater upon his lips. The intent there sent a frisson of heat through Blackwall’s chilled body, culminating in a faint flush high on his cheeks and ears. But as soon as it began, the moment was over. The Inquisitor pressed the reigns into his hands briskly, then turned back to her conversation. 

Leading the shining black beast to where his simple all-bred lay, Blackwall thought on that silent exchange until he grew uncomfortably hard in the confines of his armor. Removing his pack and rations from his horse’s saddlebags, he started towards his tent, snagging a skin of ale and pointing an agent towards the hungry, unsheltered steeds on the way. He had the second watch, so he’d best get what rest he could, as quickly as possible.

Ducking through the tent flap, Thom dropped his pack and quickly shucked his weapons, armor, and underclothes, pulling on dry replacements for the latter. The damp warden battlemaster coat was hung from the tentpoles to dry. Soon Blackwall was sitting on his bedroll, munching on crunchy peas, eyeing his armor thoughtfully. He really should put at least the leathers back on before he retired. He really didn’t want to. 

Besides, along his lower belly lay his waiting length, warm and half-hard. Taking himself in hand was much more comfortable in just his tunic and cotton pants, not having to worry about the chafe and pinch of leathers or plate. Perhaps, if he were quick… and then, somewhat relaxed, he’d strap on the bloody leathers and go to bloody sleep. Banishing a paranoid fantasy of being caught literally unawares and with his pants down, Blackwall plucked at his waist string. 

Rain beat at the sides of his tent, and thunder had begun to rumble. Slipping himself over his pants, he thumbed the tip before stroking the hardening length roughly. Even dry and mildly uncomfortable as it was, that friction had him gasping, head listing to one side. 

He closed his eyes and pictured her: Adaar in the Herald’s Rest, sharp teeth bared, laughing throatily. The Inquisitor, warm palm on his cheek, kissing him so bloody tenderly in the throne room. Sweet Ataashi, crowding his narrow tavern bed, all warm limbs and familiar Marcher accent.

His heart was pounding now, arousal curling painfully low in his belly. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, precome slicking the way. Panting heavily, he gritted his teeth on a moan, then jumped as a deafening crack of thunder rattled his tent. Behind him, the flap snapped in the wind, and static electricity pricked the hairs on the back of his neck. He tossed his head irritably, then returned to his torturously slicked strokes. 

Void, he was close now. What he wouldn’t give to have her here with him, those possessive hands on his body, that low voice husking his name--

_“Thom.”_

Blackwall flinched, his eyes jolting open. Andraste’s fucking tits, his weapon, where was his bloody weapon! Even as he blearily thought to scramble for it, he saw them: two muscular arms tipped with long-fingered brown hands rippling into existence on either side of him. Through the harsh haze of adrenaline, he suddenly recognized that voice, the leather straps and red silk straining under the power of those biceps and forearms.

“Peace, love. It is only me.” Adaar sighed heavily into his ear. Electricity prickled at his hips now, running down the lengths of his thighs. Then long leather-clad legs materialized outside his own, moving to squeeze heavily, penning him in. Thom shivered. He had only seen her work this magic before to deliver deadly violence upon their enemies.

Her knees hooked under his, prying him open, and those massive clawed fingers were roving hungrily. One moved immediately to spread over his clavicle, and the other brushed down his chest over his tunic, pinching at his nipples before dragging claws down his shivering stomach. Blackwall gasped desperately for breath, adrenaline and excitement mixing headily inside him. Maker, had she called him _love_? Fuck, fuck. 

Despite her height, she had managed to reach the back of his neck with her mouth. She laved hot stripes along his sensitive nape before sinking her teeth into the top of his trapezius. The knots languishing there sang in pain, and yet a heated moan bubbled up from his core. 

Instantly the hand at his collarbone slid up to his throat. Her fingers were so long around him that he thought they might meet in the back, and they pressed in ruthlessly. The moan crushed into a reedy gasp, and his hips thrust up helplessly. 

“Ah, _Blackwall,_” she murmured appreciatively. Encased in her body heat, those heavy limbs inexorably pressing, hot hands so possessive, Thom thought he might cry. His cock pulsed uselessly, begging for her touch. Dimly, he realized his hands had fallen limply to her thighs. Slowly, they moved toward his length, only for her to bat them away and take him in hand herself. 

Oh, fucking Maker, finally, he thought deliriously. His hands searched feverishly, only to land behind and above him, sifting through Adaar’s short mohawk. Normally slicked with balm into straight wiry tufts, the rain had softened her dark strands into thick, wet curls that coiled around his grasping hands. 

Then she dragged a twisting hand up the length of him, a ragged shock of pleasure raising his pelvis into her grasp. The hot chuckle in his ear that followed that particular move had him careening towards release. 

Adaar set an aggressive pace. Strange stars and dust motes began to crowd Blackwall’s vision, multiplying with every stroke. Even untouched, Adaar still gasped and growled appreciatively into his ear, driving him to bloody distraction. Desire for orgasm and oxygen mounted equally, until the Vashoth’s sinful tongue found its way to the shell of one ear and her teeth bit in. 

“Ah, ah, lady Adaar, _my lady_, please,” he begged reedily, gulping air, “I will surely come if you aren’t careful.”

Her lips moved against his ear, and she husked, “Then _fucking come_, Serah.” 

And he was releasing even as the words slipped past her lips, urgently pressing his hips into her hand. He’d never felt anything like it, like he was soaring bodily into space to float, tingling, among the stars. Mercifully she pulled his cock through the orgasm, let him leak over her hand onto his belly, even as her other hand pressed unrelentingly into his neck. His groan of release withered into a keen at that pressure.

Finally he relaxed bonelessly into her embrace, throat still straining against her grip. Slowly Adaar released him, allowing him to gulp great mouthfuls of free air, generously letting Thom remain melted into the hot, perfect cradle of her body, her breasts, her stomach, her hips. Her wet hand extricated itself from his softening length, moving behind his head to disappear into a sinful world of soft slurping sounds. Blackwall shivered at that, limply watching her other hand reach to his discarded pants and delicately begin to dab at the remnants of his come. 

Then she was reaching for his leathers, strapping in his thigh pieces, then the arms. Blackwall sighed softly at the discomfort, but let her work. Afterwards, Adaar lowered him fully to the bedroll, wrapping him in his tattered wool blanket and her sweet embrace. Under the spell of such warmth, such protection, he fell asleep almost instantly. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Messere! Messere Blackwall, are you awake?”

Thom jerked to a sitting position. Blood rushed from his head dizzyingly, and he gripped the side of his skull with a groan. 

“What!” he barked. Was it time for his watch? Maker, he was thirsty. He reached for his skin and uncorked it, unsurprised to find himself alone in his cold tent. 

“It's the Sutherland company, they've been sighted in the area," nervously quavered a voice, dampened by the walls of the tent, “The Inquisitor left alone to--"

"She bloody _what_?!" Blackwall scrambled to open his tent flap and glower up at the offending man. Ale sloshed onto his wrist, soaking the end of one tunic sleeve. 

A young scout stood outside, wringing his hands miserably. "She said there was no time! I think they're in danger, ser. I--"

"Wake the others. Now!" snapped Blackwall, even as he dropped the flap, corked the skin, and turned to his armor. His coat was ripped from the tentpole, only for him to curse and drop it, fumbling to remove his arm guards.

Coat, leathers, plate, quickly now, quickly. His fingers, fumbling with cold and stress, struggled to fasten laces and tighten straps. Finally it was done and he was using the flat of his shield to sweep his way out of his tent, moving purposefully through chilling drizzle towards camp center. 

Cassandra stood by the fire, militarily impeccable as always with her close cropped hair and freshly painted armor. Her head turned toward the sound of his approach, jaw clenching. “Bull follows her. He was the only one who had a chance, at this hour.” 

Blackwall nodded grimly, staring out into the pitch black past the tents. Sera, too, had keen eyes, but Bull was the one who had taken first watch this night. Fear began to sweep through Thom’s chest in waves. He gritted his teeth against the feeling, dragging the remnants of the long-since loosened knot out of his hair, roughly pulling fingers through snarls and tangles before nudging one glove down to re-secure the leather cord around his wrist. 

“What’s going on?” It was Varric lumbering towards them, and Sera behind him, stretching through a jaw-cracking yawn.

“The scouts say the Herald received urgent correspondence in the night,” replied Cassandra testily. “Apparently Sutherland’s company has been found, but the situation is dire. She wanted to go after them immediately, but Bull tried to stop her, talk _sense_ into her,” the seeker growled. 

“The Inquisitor ordered him to stay behind and keep the camp safe, then took her leave. He woke me up to take his place before following her.” She was glaring into the fire now, the flames a flickering reflection in her narrowed eyes.

Sera dropped into a cross-legged position very near the fire, shivering. Rain had already begun to dampen the shoulders of her worn red tunic, and now surely through her pants where she sat in the wet grass. “Well, shit. So, what do we do now, hey?” 

Nobody had an immediate response to that. It was common knowledge that without a mage, wilderness travel on moonless nights was nigh impossible. Cassandra hesitated, clearly considering it, but Varric cut her off. 

“No. We don’t even know what direction she went in. We,” he swallowed painfully, “we have to trust in the Inquisitor.” Then he peered down at the dirt, brow furrowed. Blackwall rather thought the dwarf’s mind was back in Adamant; the warrior looked away uncomfortably at the reminder of that particular failure.

From her seat on the ground, Sera was craning her head up at each of them in turn, frowning mightily. “So, so? 'Course we're not going anywhere tonight, but it'll be morning sooner or later. What’s the plan, yeah?” 

“Sera’s right,” said Cassandra, “Let’s decide who will--” 

Crashing from just the trees just past camp cut her off. Hope leaped into Thom’s throat even as he readied his weapon, shield raising. The others jumped to the ready as well, and the young scout began to scramble towards his sleeping companions. 

But it was only Bull. He emerged, growling, from the undergrowth, angrily batting at offending branches. By the way those thin gray lips curled around the words “Saarebas _bitch_,” it was clear that he had not succeeded in catching the Inquisitor. Tension cut, everybody lowered their weapons, Sera flopping back down with a disgusted grunt.

At first blush, the Qunari seemed no worse for wear, if somewhat out of breath. Then he stepped fully into the firelight, revealing a blossoming bruise flowing down from one horn towards his forehead. Blood glistened, darker than the rain spotting his temple, at the line where hard horn and battered skin met. 

“What’s that all about?” Sera insisted, jutting her chin towards the injury.

Bull grunted, shrugging his shoulders. “Had a little disagreement with the boss. Butted heads.” 

“Hold on,” said Varric, raising one hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “You butted heads? _Literally_? Like _rams_? ” 

Those great shoulders shrugged again, though an aggressive, lecherous light suddenly kindled in Bull’s eye. “Yeah. It was actually kind of hot, if I’m being honest. Love it when she gets feisty--” 

“_Stop_,” ordered Cassandra, shaking her head in disgust. Which was just as well, because Blackwall’s gloved hand had begun twitching angrily where it gripped the hilt of his mace. Upon noticing it, he paused in some small shock at his own jealousy, then sheathed the weapon behind his back with a small sigh. “We need to plan,” continued the seeker, “Come morning, who will make up the first search party? I will lead, as my skills will be most useful should red templar trouble us.” 

“I should go as well. Could run into darkspawn again,” gritted Blackwall. Maker’s balls, what had she been thinking? Even if she managed to avoid the red templar and the darkspawn, she still risked stumbling upon starving bears or bandits--or even more giants.

The seeker turned and eyed Varric, Bull, and Sera narrowly. “Did any of you have any sort of relationship with Sutherland or his people?” Sera and Bull shook their heads, but Varric hesitated. He'd probably been playing father-figure again, thought Blackwall uncharitably.

"Then Varric is our third." Cassandra said firmly. "Bull, Sera, you're to keep watch and rest up. If we return without her, I want to be able to send another group out right away."

"Fine," whined Sera, "S'pose I'm on watch, then. Off to bed with you lot." The elf jogged off to her tent, only to return with a sheepskin cloak in a startling shade of chartreuse draped over her shoulders. Then she plopped herself down much too near the crackling fire. 

"Careful, Sera. Not so close," warned Blackwall. He received a rude gesture for his efforts, but she grudgingly moved a few inches back.

Shaking his head, he went to check on the mounts. Thom already knew he wouldn't find more sleep tonight, and didn’t try. Behind him, he could hear Varric offering to heat up some mead, quickly followed by Sera's responding crow of delight. 

Normally Blackwall found some entertainment in the elf’s antics, but not tonight. To think his Ataashi was out there, alone and unprotected in the oppressive darkness--his heart could not bear it. What if she lay dashed upon the rocky sand of the Coast’s beaches, haven fallen from the steep cliffs above whilst running from bandits; or perhaps she was strung up, helpless, as the red templar tortured her, sullied her with their strange dark affliction; or there might yet be a worse fate, one he couldn’t even picture in the darkest recesses of his mind, that had snatched her up and broken her. He knew their remaining time together would be short, but to lose her this soon… 

So lost in sick melancholy was he, Blackwall nearly stepped on Adaar’s bog unicorn, lying prone in the mud. He stumbled back, staring. For a moment Thom thought the wretched thing had finally gone to the Maker's side. 

Then one oily ear flicked lazily, and the tail followed. The great ghastly head raised from the ground, one eyeless socket regarding him calmly as happy drool, rusty in color, leaked from its relaxed lower lip. The bloody beast was _enjoying_ itself, Thom realized, having moved as far beyond the protection of the tarpaulin shelter as its lead would allow. Only to settle, moonbathing pleasantly, on its side in the storm. 

Thom's mare, conversely, stood silent vigil under the tarp. The pony that Varric rode was close by her side, sharing heat. Moving to inspect them more closely, the warrior found her surprisingly sedate despite the weather, nostrils pinched but otherwise quiescent. Patting her warm neck gently, Thom judged the little gray pony beside her to be somewhat more stressed. His ears were pinned back, eyes wide, shivering, but soft words and gentle hands went some way towards calming the small beast. 

A few paces to their left, Bull's hart lay nodding in a kicked-up pile of mud and leaves. Beside it, the proud charger that belonged to Cassandra dozed on its feet. The dracolisk slept curled into a tight knot under a tree to Blackwall's right. A dirty blue ribbon, tied into an imperfect bow, hung limply from one of its horns. Despite himself, Thom snorted wryly. He’d never seen such a motley crew in all his life; except, of course, for their riders. Adaar would have chuckled at that sentiment, were she there with him. 

He groaned tiredly, rubbing his face hard. “My lady, why do you go where we cannot follow?” Thom mumbled into his palms. His voice was rough, shaky with suppressed tension. “How, _how_, do we help you?” Knowing no answer was forthcoming, his arms dropped wearily, and Blackwall turned for his tent--only to freeze, for he had come eye to hollow eye with the hulking mass of the bog unicorn.

It stared at him sidelong, great steaming breaths emanating from its nostrils. The air turned fetid, soured by the rotten beast’s proximity. After a moment’s contemplation through that wet and gaping socket, the shining black nose turned toward his chest, lipping at the Inquisition insignia upon his cuirass. This movement brought the rusted blade jutting from the undead horse’s muzzle sweeping startlingly close to Blackwall’s neck, right above the mark Adaar had left with her teeth just a few hours ago. Frozen in dawning wonder, he opened his mouth to speak, then flinched as the animal wailed, decisively whirling and trotting towards the fire. The lead, somehow severed, hung limply from its neck.

Blackwall stumped after it numbly, hearing Sera’s shocked yelp and the others’ curses as if from a great distance. His distracted mind whirled with questions. Unbidden, hope clawed its way through him, followed by heavy determination. They would find her. They _would_. 

Unless, of course, this beast schemed to lead them to their doom. 

He scratched his beard pensively, then hummed lightly. No matter. He’d take the risk. Dying in the Storm Coast, so near the bittersweet place where his wretched life had ended and then began anew, would be no great hardship. Not that he planned on dying just as things were finally going bloody right. 

Adaar’s steed was dancing at the edge of camp, now, glistening black body nearly lost against the wet treeline behind it. “Bring me a torch!” Blackwall ordered nobody in particular, though that same scout was off again immediately, slipping in the wet grass. 

“Oi! What’s going on?” demanded Sera. She and Varric reclined near the fire, nursing steaming mugs. Cassandra and Bull were also looking at him from where they stood close together, poring over a sodden map. 

“What’s it look like? I’m going after her,” said Blackwall blithely. “Come, if you like.” 

He took one of the torches being earnestly offered up, lit it in the fire, and started briskly after the beast. It had melted into the trees near where Bull had emerged earlier that night. Behind him, Thom could hear the sounds of scrambling, and he deliberately slowed his steps a little. 

“Are you sure about this?” Cassandra asked, coming up on his side. She held her own torch in one hand, sword unsheathed in the other. 

“Not at all,” replied Blackwall, almost cheerfully. Like he wouldn’t be leading them to near-certain death. 

“This should be good. Glad we spent all that time planning,” came Bull’s dry voice from a distance. Unconsciously, they had fallen into a diamond formation. Sera, with her elf-sight, took the front, squinting in the darkness to differentiate the undead horse from the dark foliage. Directly behind her was Varric, trodding along uncertainly. Cassandra and Thom had taken the sides, weapons drawn, and the Iron Bull trod behind them all, glowing Qunari eyes turning in all directions. 

Darkness penned them in, as impenetrable as any castle wall. All too soon, the reassuring light from camp was swallowed up, lost behind trees and the hill they stumbled down. The thunderstorm had long since quieted, though the regular sounds of raindrops persisted, broken only by their unsure footsteps and the occasional howl from a wolf in the distance. 

Long minutes passed this way, every inch of ground revealed by the flickering light of the torches driving Blackwall’s anxiety higher. He had no idea where they were, what dangers surrounded them, if they grew any closer to finding her. Thom tried to breathe deeply, slowly, even out his racing thoughts so he could focus on their mission. His hands ached from the white-knuckled group he held on his mace and torch. 

Slowly the ground evened out before them, mud and grass giving way to rocks, sand. Cassandra hissed lowly as their movement became louder, their steps, their armor, even their labored breathing echoing off the hard ground. 

“Do you see something?” Bull gritted suddenly, “To the right.”

Blackwall searched the darkness desperately, adrenaline pumping, but saw nothing. His worthless eyes had lost the horse almost immediately after they set out, and he had depended on Sera’s the whole way. Even now, she was softly humming an affirmative, neck cocked like a predatory bird in the direction Bull had indicated. 

“Aye, very faintly, just a bit of light and shadow,” she whispered. “Pink, I think, just like--” 

Suddenly, the bog unicorn shrieked to their left. Blackwall wheeled around in shock, just in time to see a snarling wolf’s slathering fangs leap towards his face. He had no shield to bring up against the attack, though muscle memory had him bringing the small torch up, up. 

Somehow his mace was also there, crushing into the animal’s ear, knocking it sideways. Blackwall’s other hand was suddenly empty, reaching desperately desperately behind him. What had he been thinking, opting for his mace over his shield? Only when his torch dropped to the wet ground and began to gutter, allowing the darkness to suddenly encroach, did Thom realize what he had done. But there was no time for regret, as in front of him Cassandra was beset by two, now three, of the foul beasts. One of them yelped, a crossbow bolt sinking deep into its shoulder. 

“Sera, Varric!” roared Bull deafeningly, “Do _not_ drop your torches!” 

The elf was screeching in alarm, and Varric had already shot at least once, darkness settling in around them; Blackwall was sure they had lost their last torch, and with it, their lives. Even so, he continued to fight, kicking at a wolf that had sunk its teeth into his sword arm, smashing at it with the edge of his shield. It dropped, stunned, and he ended it with an enormous blow. In that moment, two more barreled out of the dark, jumping at him from either side. His shield deflected one attack, but the other was slicing razored fangs into the leathers of his thigh. 

Blackwall roared with pain, only for something horribly familiar, terribly inhuman to scream back. 

“Oh, shit,” said Varric breathlessly. 

“_Behemoth_,” moaned Sera.

Terror sang in Blackwall’s veins as he battled furiously. Was it alone? They stood no chance as it was, let alone if it was accompanied by support troops of any kind. Andraste help them, a single red templar shadow could cut them down in moments in these conditions. Sera was yelling again, but he could hardly hear against the blood rushing in his ears and the yelps of the wolves.

“--cus on the doggies, I'll… the big boy busy,” he pieced together between his own gasping breaths, Bull’s battle cries. Stay on the wolves, then, fine, fine by him. Next to him, Cassandra sent one bouncing off her shield. He leaned in her direction, arm swinging around to smash his weapon into the beast with all the inertia he could muster. 

The ground had begun to shake with the behemoth’s approach. Blackwall steeled himself against the terrible urge to turn and look at the threat, instead snapping a kick to a gray wolf’s ribs, bracing against a heavy hit to his shield. 

The shaking stopped. Either the bastard was upon them, or it was readying to charge. Maker’s fucking balls. 

He took a deep breath, stepped back behind Cassandra’s guard, and then put all the night’s desperation into his next word.

“_Sera._” 

“On it, jeesh!” The sound of a cork popping, a feminine grunt. “Only got one bloody arm free.” 

The Behemoth roared a battle cry, then, and it was too late, they were done for. But there was a tinkling crash, a whoosh, and that the roar pitched up into a scream. The ground was shaking erratically, Blackwall noted as he thrust his mace up into a gaping maw, was the beast stumbling? 

A series of popping explosions sounded, and Varric crowed with delight, nearly inaudible beyond the templar’s agonized cries. That Blackwall could even note these events was a sign that the wolves were flagging. He punctuated that positive thought by flicking his spiked gauntlets hard into the underside of a massive swiping paw. 

“One of us,” he gasped hoarsely, hoping his fellow warriors knew he referred to them, “Should go get started on, ah, _him_.” 

“I’d love nothing more, big guy,” began Bull, only to be overridden by Cassandra’s commanding voice. 

“No! The templar is mine,” she declared. “Blackwall, cover me.” Then she was retreating, leaving Thom scrambling to charge into the fray she left behind.

Glancing about as he moved, Blackwall entertained the opinion that now only a few wolves remained, and none of them in good health. Then his boot stepped on bloody foreleg instead of wet rock, and he was slipping, falling awkwardly to one knee. The remaining wolves seized upon this moment of weakness, swarming him. 

"Duck!" Bull bellowed, and he did. In fact, Thom smashed himself flat to the hard ground, slipping his shield over his unprotected head and neck. Overhead, much too close, he could hear the thick hum of the chromatic sword, cleaving flesh, aborted whimpers. Then Bull was laughing heartily, bidding him, “Up, man! Got all three of the bastards, oh _yes_.”

Blackwall scrambled to his feet, ignoring the complaints from what must be a twisted knee, casting a glance into the flickering dark about him. Bodies everywhere, all fur and blood and mangled flesh. There must have been at least 12 wolves, all turned unnaturally aggressive via red lyrium poison. Though the fur on the corpses shivered in the rain and wind, none of them seemed to move under their own power, and Blackwall turned to appraise the situation behind him. 

Several yards away, the behemoth was groaning, swinging its greater arm sluggishly. Cassandra dodged the desperate moves easily, driving her sword into swaths of flesh yet uneaten by lyrium. Blessedly, both rogues still held their torches. Bianca, wedged between Varric’s knee and chest, was being slowly loaded one-handedly a safe distance from the melee. Sera was similarly fumbling about her person with one arm, though she danced closer to the fray. And there went Bull, slashed and bloody about the limbs and head, charging towards the monster with a joyful roar. 

Advancing cautiously, Blackwall noted the bitter odor of Antivan fire grenades, likely the reason why the burned lyrium upon the templar monstrosity was pulsing painfully, slowly losing saturation. The little elf had done well, he thought, the red lyrium was failing. Just needed to finish it, and he knew exactly how. 

“Bull, take the left leg,” he ordered, striding forward, “Seeker, his head!”

Maker bless them, they did exactly that. The chromatic sword arced up between those broad horns, then careened down mightily, severing, no, shattering, the leg at the thigh. At the same moment, Cassandra leapt in front of the beast and executed a model stop thrust, straight between the monster’s beady eyes. 

The behemoth froze, transfixed, then listed to the side in an interminably slow fall. Blackwall winced around the grating sound of its final wail and Sera’s mad whoops of victory, already casting his eyes about in the darkness for the bog unicorn. It was standing among the wolves, dipping its head to sniff delicately at their corpses. Sensing his attention, it flicked its tail and began to move off again, into the night.

“Is everyone alright?” asked Cassandra, fishing a small bottle of healing potion from under her plate and handing it to Bull. He guzzled it greedily, and the wounds on his arms and legs began to sizzle, close slightly. At their nods, she continued, “We should gather our torches and move quickly. Who knows what attention we might have garnered with this fight.” 

Nodding again in agreement, Blackwall began searching. The bites on his thigh and arm, and his twisted knee, pained him, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, moving briskly to unearth his torch from where he spied it beneath a fallen beast. All gathered, the party began to walk again, attempting to relight their guttered torches with those of the rogues’. Blackwall and Bull’s fired up easily enough, but Cassandra’s was too damp to take a light. She cursed, wedging the torch into her belt roughly, and taking the one Varric proffered. Unlike the rest of them, the dwarf seemed much more invested in having both hands on his weapon than keeping a light source on his person. Under their feet, the ground pitched up again, another hill, rockier than the last. 

Heady on their success, the night somehow seemed less dangerous to Blackwall. Even though, in truth, he knew they were in more danger now that they had suffered small injuries, he felt strong, almost hopeful. He felt they had been blooded to this kind of work now, knew and could overcome the unique terrors of the dark. The Inquisitor might even be proud of them, he thought, when they found her. And, as Thom looked up, he thought the sky was lightening, turning gray. 

The dawn had come.


	3. Chapter 3

Magefire. 

Fueled by the fade, it burned a little brighter and yet somehow smoked a little weaker than fire would in its natural form. Blackwall also thought it smelled different, strangely acrid, metallic in his nose and throat. 

He had become very familiar with that odor in the months since he had joined the Inquisition. Fire was one of the Inquisitor's favored schools of magic, alongside healing. In her hands lay the power to destroy, and the will to regenerate. Bit much, really, Thom thought. Though he preferred that raw power lay with Adaar than anyone else; he trusted her motivations, if not her magic. 

And he smelled that magic now, a burning fetor that cut through the bracingly fresh air of the Storm Coast like a hot dagger through butter. It had to be her.

The rest of the party seemed to sense something as well, and their pace increased slightly, shuffling up an incline slippery with sodden groundcover, weaving around close-growing spruces to follow the Inquisitor’s steed. They retained their torches, for though the sky had begun to wash out with the encroaching dawn, gray and murky, visibility in the poor weather was still minimal. 

“D’you,” started Sera suddenly, leaning dangerously far forward on her toes, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh yeah,” responded the Iron Bull quietly, face intent. “Ready up, there’s something up ahead.” 

Slowly they advanced, and slowly the dark before them began to lighten, flicker, and flare softly red through the fog. 

“There was a battle here,” Bull murmured, “Looks like the fun is over, but keep your heads on a swivel.” 

Once again Blackwall was left gazing uneasily into the dim mist, seeing little more than color and light. A few halting yards more, and that color and light developed into the craggy shapes of cracked, fading red lyrium, stacked high on smoking wagons. Bloody void, a red templar encampment, he thought. Though it appeared this one had been razed, and recently.

"Varric, take my torch," hissed Cassandra. The dwarf complied with a low grunt, allowing the unburdened seeker to draw her sword. The mist swirled and parted before them, revealing crystal-encrusted bodies, and adrenaline welled up in Blackwall's veins. 

But the templar lay prone, still, seemingly lifeless corpses. Most were blackened and burnt, residual heat causing their mutated innards to emit soft cracking noises. 

"Must have been a delivery team," Bull was murmuring, silver eye flicking about the area rapidly, "Three, four footsoldiers, couple archers. And, heh, that big ugly stain was probably a knight, once upon a time." He nodded at a smoking pit in the ground, from which a black, skeletonized hand loosely clad in a charred gauntlet protruded. Varric chuckled grimly at the sight. 

"That's the work of our Inquisitor, alright."

Carefully they skirted the scene of destruction, following the fresh trail of hoofprints sunk deep into the mud. Blackwall peered hopefully at the wet ground, searching for any tracks that could have been left by Adaar, but saw little of promise. At least there was some small indication, now, that they were indeed on a path that led to her. 

Checking a sigh, Thom stretched his tight shoulders and head around the urge to itch at the paranoia prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He took some comfort in the way that Bull had begun to tread nearly sideways, keen eye continually falling back to the fallen red templar bodies and the area around them. The excitement at finding the encampment was starting to ebb, leaving Blackwall with a pounding head and stiffening limbs. His wounds from the wolves were throbbing, threatening to throw off his gait, and his gloved fingers ached where they gripped at his mace and torch. 

At least it was growing lighter in earnest, soft misty rays of silver cutting at hard angles through the dark trees. Around them, upon the foliage and on the ground, their torches cast flickering orange streaks into dappled blue sunspots. They were in proper forest now, all rolling green hillocks and regularly spaced spruces, shining with rain. 

Thom could picture himself settling down somewhere like this, feeling much warmer and healthier, in a comfortable cabin near a stream large enough to fish. That little corner of the Hinterlands he had taken for his own, so much like this, had been damn near perfect. In fact, it would have been ideal if he had not wasted away the years there in crushing guilt and fear. The guilt would never leave him, but at least time had numbed the pain, somewhat. And the fear of capture and prosecution had quite recently become a moot point.

Up in front, Sera took advantage of a puddle to extinguish her torch. Giggling in delight at the little kick of steam and hissing sound this action produced, she flicked the guttered length of wood up and back down again, sending silty water flying in all directions. Her flailing dodge away from the dirty spray earned her an exasperated chuckle from Varric. And, as the opportunity presented itself, they each doused their own torches, though much more sedately. Picking up the one Sera had abandoned, Blackwall grouped it with his own torch and wedged them both behind his back, beneath the straps for his mace and shield.

Adaar’s unicorn was trotting back and forth impatiently a few yards ahead. South then, Thom supposed, watching the morning sun glint off the beast’s tossing head as it moved off. Unburdened by torches and surer-footed in the light, the group’s speed picked up after it. Bolstered by the improved visibility, Blackwall holstered his weapon and flexed his aching hands, thinking again of that little house in the Hinterlands. 

When this war was over, and if they both yet lived, would Adaar go there with him? Build a quiet existence, little more strenuous than good fishing, great ale, certainly more of that incredible sex. Once in a while they could make a little coin clearing bandits or demons out of nearby villages, he supposed, keep his sword skills up. Or perhaps she would prefer to keep him at her side, take him along to meet her mercenary band. Rough days of hard battle, easy soldier's camaraderie, followed by warm, tipsy nights on top of her in a tavern bed. That would be no great hardship, either.

Ah, but when this war was over, and if they both yet lived, the Inquisitor had sentenced him to leave her side for that of the wardens. Forever. Blackwall scratched his cheek slowly at the memory. He was more than accustomed to the sick feeling coiling in his belly, even if the reason behind it was new. 

Well, never let it be said the lady Adaar wasn’t honorable: her sense of justice certainly hadn’t failed in the face of her passion. Thom briefly entertained the notion that he could not have stayed with the woman out of principle had she pardoned him. But that particular lie was too egregious even for him, convicted deceiver that he was.

Now Adaar's makerforsaken sense of honor had sent her running off alone to find her men. Blackwall frowned, absently rubbing at his forearm muscles where they stiffened about the edges of his bite wound. Even as he respected the Inquisitor's principles in theory, he could still admit he smarted at their direct application. Suppose that's why she was a religious and military icon, and he a disgraced criminal, following far behind. 

"Shit!" squalled Sera suddenly, dragging Thom out of his reverie. She was staring down from the top of a hill in front of them, the dark horse a few paces from her side. 

"What is it?" Cassandra asked as they moved quickly forward to meet the little elf, matching her gaze down what was less hilltop and more ragged cliff face. 

Below, along a rocky stream, a battle was waging. Blackwall couldn't make out the details of any of the numerous combatants, but he certainly knew those flaring lines of red, the panicked cries they produced that could be heard even at this distance. It was Adaar, but how in the void would they get to her?

The bog unicorn wailed as if in response to the commotion below, and broke into a gallop along the edge of the cliff. Blackwall scrambled after it, panting against the responding pangs in his bloodied thigh, his twisted knee. Nearly out of sight ahead of them, the great beast suddenly cut right and down, disappearing behind a swell of grass. 

Sera and Bull were ahead of Thom, sprinting at a breakneck pace, and they too rounded that natural corner and out of sight. Just behind him, the seeker was cursing, likely slowed by her drawn weaponry. 

Finally Blackwall saw it for himself, the beginnings of what must be a natural path tamped into the cliff. He wheeled around and prepared to hurtle down it, only to be surprised at its steepness, for the narrow path was a direct descent nearly straight down into the small valley. 

The sole of his muddy boot slipped on wet foliage as he attempted to slow himself, and suddenly he was half sliding, half falling down the narrow trail. Blackwall stared helplessly at his boots' failing grip on the slick terrain, grunting in pain as his back bounced hard on the path behind him. Still Thom dared not stop fully, pushing himself up on his good forearm, attempting to control his slide down the hill by using his gauntlet as a makeshift rudder. 

Daring a glance up away from his shuddering descent along the ground, he saw that Bull had managed to keep his footing, careening dangerously towards the bottom at a dead sprint. Tucked under his massive arm like a roll of sailcloth was Sera, kicking her legs madly and squealing with glee. Then Thom's foot caught on a boulder, jamming the bones of his leg up to his screaming knee, and he cursed, returning his attention to his own problems. 

Finally, finally, the ground evened out around Blackwall. Groaning, he haltingly rose to his feet, and stumbled off the narrow path to make room for Cassandra and Varric. There had to be a quarry's worth of dirt and debris pushed up into his backplate, he thought blearily, tugging ineffectually at the edge of the plate in the hope that some would fall back out. Shaking his head, he looked to where the battle was, drawing his mace. 

Sera was standing under her own power now, bow rising up, arrow nocked, aimed, and loosed in one fluid move. It hit an unhelmeted archer in cheap bandit's armor as he backed unknowingly towards them, and he dropped instantly, halfway into the stream. Bull had been running at the man, sword drawn, roaring merrily, but as the archer fell the qunari slowed to a stop, shoulders rising and falling in what Blackwall thought might be a huff.

Scanning the scene, Thom realized the fight was over. Then there was a crash and a grunt behind him, and he whirled around. But it was only Cassandra, laid out on her belly at the bottom of the path, and Varric sprawled atop her, dizzily attempting to aim Bianca. At least the seeker had sheathed her weapon, thought Blackwall, and he did the same, turning back wearily to shuffle towards the Inquisitor. 

Maker's balls, his knee hurt, but not nearly as much as his pride. What a cock-up this night had been. Blackwall caught the edge of a furious look from Adaar where she kneeled over a hooded figure, and stifled a wince even as relief surged through him to see her still live. It only lasted a moment, though, before she returned to her task, pulsing gentle waves of healing magic through the hunched man, who Thom could now see was Sutherland’s mage companion. Near them, Sutherland and his other cohort were locked in an amorous embrace, though the adventurer broke away from it when he heard their advance. 

“That’s the Inquisitor!” Sutherland proclaimed unnecessarily with a dopey grin. Probably shocked to be alive, Blackwall thought churlishly, though deep down he could almost empathise with the sentiment.

“‘_That’s the Inquisitor!_’” mocked the pretty rogue in his arms, “Oh, you beautiful ass.” She giggled and claimed his lips again in a quick peck. 

“What happened here?” asked Cassandra, stepping briskly over a large body. A strange, faint flush colored her cheeks, but her voice was as hard as always. It was enough to sober Sutherland somewhat, and he moved away from the girl to stand at attention. 

“We saved the caravan, but lost the fight, Seeker Pentaghast. They saw your flag and were hoping we were good for a ransom. Once they learned we were nobody, we were as good as dead,” here his face brightened. “But the Inquisitor came for us.”

“Of course I came,” Adaar assured, voice smooth and low, each word heavy with sincerity. One gloved hand rested soothingly on the hunched mage’s shoulder, and the other was reaching to pick up and hand him the massive spell tome he weakly grasped after. “_You_ are an adventuring party of the _Inquisition_.” 

Sutherland positively wibbled at that, accepting Varric’s proffered handkerchief and blowing his nose into it with a swampy honk. 

“Did you hear that,” Sutherland said, voice cracking, “Did everyone hear _that_?” At another smart word from the girl, he composed himself with a sniffle and a brisk salute. 

“Inquisitor. We’ll return to the hold. And we’ll be back out in no time.” 

Adaar slowly rose to her feet, gently helping the silent mage up with a supporting hand on his elbow. Then she turned her face to the sky gingerly, checking the sun’s position through the clouds. The action revealed three very fresh pink scars puckering her jawline, and three matching gashes sunk into the pauldron of her dragon armor. Thom swallowed hard against the surge of protective worry that rose in his throat at the sight of it. Shit, he should have been there.

“We’ll accompany you as far as Storm’s Solitude,” she said, eyes flicking to Cassandra. Adaar’s face was carefully placid. “I assume you did not bring our mounts and gear with you?”

The seeker shook her head minutely, and Adaar nodded.

“Very well. Should we take the coastline or the Eastern paths along the mountain?” she asked diplomatically. Then she flicked a mocking glance at Blackwall. “Or shall we try our luck with that _shortcut_ I saw you had found?”

“Hey! We were only following _your_ bloody ugly demon horse, er, _thing_,” snapped Sera, “_It_ was the one what led us near straight off a cliff!” Adaar looked at her uncomprehendingly, then followed the elf’s gesturing arm to where her bog unicorn stood upstream, peacefully drinking from the waters. She frowned. 

“I see. Well then, sers, let us clean up and be off. But first, gather round now--if you would accept my healing.” Obediently, Blackwall moved closer, as did most of the others. Except Sera, who, knowing what was coming, twirled on her heel and marched off, presumably to begin looting bodies. 

Gazing after the elf, Thom missed the act of Adaar’s casting, instead being gently surprised by the strange wash of healing magic over his person. The grating ache in his knee receded, as did the throbbing of his bite wounds. Even his looming adrenaline headache faded. Gratefully, Blackwall rolled his wrists and shoulders, noting the relative looseness of his muscles despite the chill in the air and all the hours in wet armor. Satisfied, he looked back up, peering closely at his love.

Perhaps it was the grey light of the coast, but she seemed washed out, pale. The broad smear of kohl she preferred around her eyes had long since washed off in the rain; without it or her customarily stiffly peaked hair, her piercing golden eyes seemed softer, her visage nearly innocent with those lovely dark curls plastered wetly about her forehead and horns. The more he learned to read her stoic face, the more Thom thought she was near constantly tired. Though perhaps that was less growing skill on his part and more time spent on hers bearing the great weight of a world-saving movement. At least the new scars on Adaar’s face had faded to a light brown with this bout of healing, softly pink in the center. 

“Let’s get on with it,” Cassandra snapped, turning on her heel and moving toward the nearest body. Blackwall thought her still stinging from the Inquisitor’s reproach, incredibly mild though it was. Looting was quick work with little reward; the bandits were poorly stocked, having expected to take a caravan’s worth of supplies. 

The bog unicorn sauntered over at a call from Adaar, standing patiently under the weight of her considering gaze. After a long moment, she hummed thoughtfully and turned, gently lifting the mage whose name Blackwall now remembered to be Voth up into the saddle, leaving him there to hunch, shivering, over his spellbook. What little gold they found went into the saddlebags, the best pieces of bandit armor strapped on top. Then the Inquisitor took the reins and struck off at a march along the rocky stream, towards the coast. Sutherland and his lady hurried after her and the steed, giggling in admiration. 

“So, I’m confused,” said Varric, moving up alongside Thom, “Aren’t _we_ supposed to be mad at _her_?” 

“She’s mad? Didn’t catch that,” interjected Sera. She was weaving a gold coin through her fingers single handedly, brow furrowed in concentration as she walked. 

“Oh, she’s in a nasty mood for sure,” piped up Bull appreciatively. “You should move in on her now, man, get a taste of what angry sex is like with someone that powerful.”

Cassandra emitted a powerful grunt of disgust, then, after a moment, a tiny sigh.

"You should talk to her," tersely murmured the seeker to Blackwall. "The Inquisitor will want to push for the templar hideout as soon as possible, but she needs to rest."

"So do bloody we," Sera whined. And that much was true, thought Blackwall. Though his body was healed, rejuvenated, his mind was beginning to lag with exhaustion, his nerves objecting to the unnaturally brisk beat of his heart. It felt something like the time Josephine had offered them the Antivan drink they called coffee: a false, jittery freshness that left him a little hot and anxious.

“Fine,” he said, “Though I don’t know what you expect me to do to convince her.” 

“Oh? I have a few ideas,” supplied Bull lecherously. Shaking his head, Thom increased his pace to meet Adaar at the front of the group. 

She didn’t acknowledge him at first, staring out at the approaching sea. Out of the corner of his eye, Thom watched rainwater drip from her horns, run in rivulets down the shining silver plate of her armor. This close to the water the air was briney, freezing sea wind whipping about them, pulling on their hair, shivering their mail. 

“Ser Blackwall. Is there something you wished to speak to me about, or are you simply here to keep me company?” asked the Inquisitor. The howling wind took most of the bite out of her tone, carrying it away to dash against the rocks and sand of the beach. Blackwall hesitated. 

“I wondered what our plans are once we reach Storm’s Solitude, my lady Inquisitor.” 

Adaar’s eyes flicked down to meet his flintily, a faint line creasing her brow. For a moment he thought she might snap at him, but instead she looked forward again, ear twitching. 

“It will be midday by the time we arrive. We will rest until,” her lips pursed unhappily, “dawn. Then on to the camp at Driftwood Margin.”

“Aye,” Blackwall responded, somewhat cheered by the prospect of a full night’s sleep. That was one issue put to rest, then. He turned over the subject of her departure in his mind, debating how to bring it up, but she beat him to it. 

“If you think to correct me, save your breath.” she said frostily. “I did what I had to to bring our men back, and I would do it over a thousand times again.” 

“Lady Adaar, you cannot simply--” 

“Yes I can _simply_, when there is a need,” she overrode him, face placid but tone cutting. “When possible, I look for other solutions. I entrusted Cullen with the rescue of my Valo-Kas, did I not? But I will not stand idly by and let our men die unnecessarily when I can _help_.”

Blackwall had no immediate response to that. Pride in his leader swelled in his chest even as fear for his love swooped low, weakening his knees. They walked in silence along the beach for a time, watching waves crash against rocky outcrops. 

“I suppose I could take a little more care in the future. When possible.” Adaar said softly, voice thoughtful. “Wouldn’t want to make my people worry too much.”

Thom looked up in surprise, meeting her gaze. She was smiling a very small smile at him, and her golden eyes were full of promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to put it out there that There Is Technically A Chance we could not only get Rylen as a character in DA4, but a romance for him as well. Just wanna put that out there. It's possible. Technically.


	4. Chapter 4

“Ah, how long did you know? About me.” 

Adaar hummed thoughtfully, but otherwise let the question hang in the damp air between them. The howling sea winds stole any warmth from the late morning sun that might have graced his cheeks, but, blessedly, Blackwall’s plate and sodden warden coat stopped the worst of that wind from freezing his already painfully cold body. Only slight traces of their companions’ conversations could be heard beyond the elements.

“Anyone who has studied the grey wardens has an idea of the type of men who make up much of their forces,” she said finally, face placid, eyes dutifully scanning the terrain around them. “Besides, the Inquisition does have some of the best spies in Thedas in its employ; you were the one who joined up anyway.”

Blackwall frowned. “I didn’t know at the time that you were keeping those two gossips around,” he grumbled. That earned him a small huff of amusement, though he nearly missed it cringingly thinking on all the times he had seen Adaar, Bull, and Leliana with their heads together, deep in discussion--how many of those whispered conversations had been about him? 

“You could tell bawdy tales with the best of them, in the Rest,” Adaar continued consideringly. “But when it came to a story that involved Blackwall the grey warden hero and not Blackwall the wild randy _cock_, you shut up tighter than a dwarven thaig. So to speak,” she amended, no doubt thinking of the unearthed and cracked open thaigs they had found upon this very coast, just a few months ago. Thom chewed on this new information with dark fascination. 

“Between that and a few of your other, ah, less than _sparkling_ lies of omission, I could read between the lines. Which, in hindsight, probably meant that I was spending entirely too much time thinking about you,” Adaar admitted with a wry chuckle. And didn’t that admission bring a chilly shiver of pleasure out of Thom. He busied himself scanning for danger up the cliffs crowding one side of the beach they walked. The soft brown shape of a lone ram moved sedately along the upper edge, grazing upon rocky vegetation. He caught the edge of Sera’s frenetic laughter on the wind, for just a moment, before it was whisked away.

“I was certain by Halamshiral, but equally certain you would run if confronted.” Adaar grunted suddenly, drawing Blackwall’s eye in time for him to catch the slight, frustrated toss of her head. A rivulet of water flew from the tip of one horn to be lost amongst the rain on the stony sand. “And then you _did_ run, you bastard,” she accused, though it was without venom.

“I see,” Blackwall managed. “Sorry.” Anxiety reared within him, almost as if he was kneeling before the throne again, begging shamelessly to keep her heart. "You… didn't think less of me?" 

One broad pauldron hitched up in a shrug. "I didn't know details. But I don't think it would have mattered much." She looked back behind them, and Blackwall matched her gaze.

Sutherland and his lady were walking hand in hand, eyes only for each other. Up in the bog unicorn’s saddle, the recovered elven mage was peacefully looking out at the sea, absently twirling one of the ribbons protruding from his tome. A few dozen yards behind, Sera was perched upon Bull’s shoulders, deftly aiming her bow this way and that while Cassandra and Varric watched.

“I’ve killed worse, fucked worse, likely done worse myself.” Adaar said thoughtfully, turning forward again. “I think the same could be said for most all of us. Your approach was strange, but I can respect that you’re working to better yourself.

“So. Perhaps I am corrupt, just as you accused. I did not take action when I saw you for what you were. It wasn't until you forced my bloody hand that I… did what I had to." Adaar's face was stony now, and she stared off past the water. Rain sluiced down her cheek, caught in the fresh scars upon her jaw. 

Thom chewed on the inside of his cheek. This had gone to a dark place, as he knew it would. He cursed the sick curiosity that had bade him start this bloody line of conversation. “Or perhaps I have a bad habit of thinking in black and white,” he offered. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, but Adaar did not look at him. 

“It's… certainly easier to accuse a political leader of imperfection than it is to confront the individual actions and situations that put that leader in the impossible position of having to take action, cast judgment,” he continued. And was that true? Thom didn’t know, but he had said it so maybe he did believe it. It was indeed his own bloodied hand that had led him down this road, to meet Ataashi and then lose her just as quick. That much at least was the truth.

“In any case, I welcome what comes after the battle with Corypheus,” Thom said, and he was not lying there, either. Grey warden conscription was certainly a fitting and noble fate. Possibly nobler than he deserved, even if it had been chosen for him. 

Though he would hold that happy bloody fantasy of the two of them and that little cabin close to his heart for the rest of his days. 

At that thought, Blackwall hesitated. “My only regret is having to leave your side,” he admitted.

Their eyes met, and Adaar’s lips quirked up ever so slightly. “It will be a new beginning for you,” she stated, with all the calm confidence of a leader of armies and herald of Andraste. And Maker take him, but he believed it. 

“Come on, then.” she said briskly, turning away and picking up the pace, “As much as I enjoy playing Orlesian parlor drama with you, Serah--and make no mistake, I _do not_\--we have a coast full of red templar to clean up.”

“Aye, my lady,” he replied to her back. His legs, stiff with cold, were failing to keep up with her long strides.

“Besides,” she purred, almost too low for him to hear from his position behind her, “The sooner we finish this up, the sooner we can return to Skyhold and I can fuck you _through_ my bed. You owe me an orgasm, _Captain_.”

Thinking on that proposition certainly kept Thom warm enough through the last leg of their march.

An hour later, Blackwall cleared the last hill to the Storm’s Solitude campsite with a weary grunt, swiping a glove ineffectually at the water sluicing down his face. The last stretch had been largely silent, save for the incessant tittering of Sutherland and his beau. At least they hadn’t seen any trouble the whole way through, only endless rain and crashing waves. The sun hovered directly above them, a frosty white orb that threatened to dissolve into the perpetual clouds of the coast. 

This time of day, the camp was bustling: scouts tending to mounts, handling the ravens, washing laundry, mending tarpaulins. Wandering just past the fire to where a rotund little figure was bent over the day’s catch, Thom pulled up a log of firewood and sat, glancing back. Adaar had immediately moved to the planning table and the requisitions officer, Cassandra jogging lightly behind to meet them. Having taken the reigns of the Inquisitor’s mount, Varric was leading the rescued adventuring party and an Inquisition soldier towards the tents, talking animatedly. 

Thom hummed and turned back to the scout. She was a stout thing in a leather apron, with short dark coils of hair jutting from her hood and the strange, liquid eyes of an elf. A carving knife in her thick-fingered hand worked agilely to butcher a red snapper. “Can I assist?” he asked, reaching for the dagger in his boot. 

“‘Course, Ser. Though if I’m being honest,” her flat nose wrinkled, “Appreciate it if you washed up first. At least a little. You smell like a Denerim midden pit after First Day’s Feast.” 

That surprised a chuckle out of him, and he nodded. “Ah, right. That would probably be from the wolves. Be back.”

He got up and walked stiffly to his tent, ducking inside the dripping flap. Off came the weapons, torches, and bags, then the plate armor, piece by piece and into a neat pile. 

Gloves, boots, leathers, next, and the sodden coat. Pity he had forgotten the cape to protect against the rain in his rush to leave the night before. Now he'd need to try to dry it before they set out in the morning. And damn, but it did smell terrible. Bloody wolves. Sighing, he dropped the coat and removed his tunic and breeches, also wet. He used the tunic to wipe down his body, paying particular attention to the grime and sweat that had gathered on his face.

He was almost warmer without the soaked clothes and cold plate leeching the heat from his body, though he still shivered where he stood nude in his tent, hunched to accommodate the low ceiling. The fresh lacerations on his forearm and thigh were pink and tender, partially healed, and they twinged in complaint as he briskly wiped himself down. At least his knee felt fine, though stiff with cold. 

All the wet clothes from the past two days went up to hang from the tentpole in the hopes of drying out. On went the last clean shirt and pants from his pack, followed by his socks, boots, gloves, leathers, and the oilskin cape. Slinging his weapon strap loosely over one shoulder, he grabbed a skin and left the tent, stopping to relieve himself before making his way through the sprinkling rain back to the where the scout sat, now accompanied by Bull. 

“Better?” Thom asked, settling back down on his makeshift seat. He dropped his shield and weapon just behind him and took a long swig of ale. 

“Better,” she agreed, not bothering to look up from her work slicing halibut filet away from innards. 

“Hey, no coat,” commented Bull. He held a wickedly curved knife delicately in his massive hand, having paused in the butchering of a snapper to look at Blackwall. Adaar's honey badger was curled around one of his boots, gnawing voraciously at a fish head. 

“Aye. Got the bloody thing wet, had to hang it up in my tent. Not a chance it’ll dry by morning,” Thom grumbled, leaning forward to pick up a bowl full of garlic scapes soaking in water and begin trimming them. The elven scout grunted and turned around, to where another soldier was laboring to walk under the burden of a pile of Inquisition uniforms. 

“Oi, Ira!” she bellowed, “Take Ser Blackwall’s greatcoat out of his tent and have it dry before dawn! Ah, that is, with your permission, messere.” she demurred to Thom, even as the other scout shouted an affirmative and returned to his duty.

Blackwall chuckled and nodded. "My thanks. You've spared me a very cold trip in the morning. I never caught your name. You're out of Denerim, yes?"

"I am indeed. Name's Deva, and it's a pleasure. Honor to be a part of the movement and all that."

A passing scout dropped an armful of bundles of fresh beach lovage and lamb's quarters at their feet, along with a muddy package and two loaves of bread. Tugging loose the strings holding the bundles of greens together, Thom set to work rinsing them in portions in the bowl alongside a few remaining scapes he hadn't yet cleaned and trimmed.

"So, Denerim. Nice," said Bull. "Isn't that where the Hero of Ferelden is from?"

Bull dropped a halibut cheek down to Ser Dip, and the badger snapped up the raw piece of tender meat with a happy growl before returning to his fish head.

“Hey now! Why’s he get the best cut?” complained the scout, ignoring Bull's question in favor of jabbing her knife shortly in Dip’s direction. 

“Boss’ orders,” he replied easily, hands moving confidently over another fish. Between the three of them, separate mounds of greens, filets, innards, cuttings, and bones grew steadily. “He’s not like your mabari in Ferelden: much wilder, more headstrong and independent. Gotta make sure he has a reason to stick around.” The tal-vashoth chuckled lightly, eye flicking up to meet Thom’s. “Kinda like someone else I know.”

Blackwall didn't dignify that with an answer, though his gaze turned, unbidden, to the Inquisitor. She had her arms braced upon the requisitions table, poring over a map and nodding at something Cassandra was saying. She seemed so pale and tired to Thom, especially without the customary kohl dusting her eyelids. When was the last time she had eaten or rested? Surely her wet armor chafed and chilled.

Bull cleared his throat. "So what are we doing here? Soup? Skillet fry? Back in Par Vollen we'd eat fish as fresh as this raw, with a bit of vinegared sticky rice. Damn good stuff."

The scout emitted a mock-retching sound at that. "_Raw_,truly? Will wonders never cease. No, Ser Varric requested something hearty to warm you lot up upon your return. So, fish pottage?"

"He was probably fretting over Sera again," grumbled Blackwall, though not unkindly.

“Think you’re right,” Bull agreed. “Pottage, then. Shall we get it started?” 

“Yeah, alright. Better go get the pot.” She waved the warriors down from where they had started to stand. “No, don’t trouble yourselves. Be just a moment.” 

Bull watched her leave, then turned to Blackwall, stretching his huge arms out and above his horned head. “So, big guy. I was thinking--” 

“Always a dangerous proposition, when it comes to you,” Thom snarked. 

“Ha! True. In any case, I used to think it was just me who thought all you humans looked the same."

They both knew that claim to be false. Blackwall still remembered walking into the Singing Maiden one night in Haven to find all three of the Renou triplets perched giggling upon the qunari's lap. And Bull hadn't had any trouble telling them apart, even when Germain and Ambroys began plying him with copious tankards of Ferelden boilermakers.

Both brothers were with the Maker now, leaving only Osanna behind. She didn't laugh much anymore. Thom sighed. "And now?" he asked, unenthused.

"Clearly you guys can't tell each other apart, either," joked Bull, swiping a forearm across his wet forehead. "How the crap did you live as some other guy for all those years?"

Deva was back, with a boiler propped on one shoulder and a stand wedged under the other arm. Blackwall braced his arms on his knees and rose to his feet with a grunt. "I grew a beard," he grumbled, and turned to the scout. "Stock first?"

"Yes, yes. Would one of you pour a spot of ale into the pot from the keg?" She already had the stand up over the fire and the pot settled upon it. Reaching in past the stir stick, she pulled out a folded length of cheesecloth and a few sprigs of rosemary, tossing them to Blackwall.

Squatting, Blackwall unfurled the cloth and began stacking fish bones, lovage, and rosemary on it, closely supervised by Ser Dip. Bull was already returning from where the kegs sat safely away from the warmth of the fire, one settled easily on his shoulder. 

"So really, you put some hair on your face and nobody can tell who you are anymore?" Kneeling before the pot, Bull uncorked the keg's spigot with his free hand, allowing ale to pour freely from his shoulder. "That's some disguise."

Thom grunted, removing a cord from his wrist and using it to tie up the gathered edges of the cloth. "And I didn't talk to anyone for months at a time," he added, not sure if he felt smug or shameful. Maker's balls, but he was a mess of a man. Picking up the large sachet, Blackwall dropped it in the boiler, now two thirds full of ale. 

"All right, that probably helped," Bull chuckled. He stopped up the keg and went to set it back down with the others. Eyeing the boiler keenly for a moment, Thom picked up the bowl of water he had used to trim greens and dumped it on the muddy grass somewhat out of the way of foot traffic. Then, settling back onto his seat, he picked up a filet and began slicing it, inch long pieces dropping into the bowl. 

The warm, delicious odor of ale, rosemary, and halibut began to hug the edges of the smoky sea air. Without warning, Thom’s stomach rumbled fiercely. He hadn’t eaten since the night before, and even then it had been little more than dried peas. Invigorated by the prospect of a proper meal, he set upon the meat with intent. 

Soon enough, the bowl was overflowing with nuggets of fish, a sizeable chunk taken out of the pile of filets. Next to him, Bull had a pile of chopped greens to match, and he continued to work, deftly dissecting plants with single-minded focus. The boiler had finally gotten hot, the liquid within bubbling, but it would still be some time yet before the broth would be finished.

He had time, then. Catching a bit of shut-eye was a tempting notion, but the possibility of losing out on dinner to Sera and Bull’s exceptional appetites could not be borne. So Thom picked up a fist sized chunk of wood from the pile of firewood and began to chip away at it with his knife.

The early afternoon was whiled away in this fashion, wood shavings steadily falling away from the block in his hand to reveal the developing foundations of rough waves. Bull had arranged himself propped beneath a tree nearby, dozing languorously. Over at the planning table, Varric had joined the group, and was arguing with Cassandra while Adaar ignored them in favor of frowning at fresh correspondence.

Then Deva was removing the large sachet from the boiler, squeezing the excess liquid from it and taking it from the pot to dump its contents outside of camp. Pocketing his whittling, Blackwall stood, picking up the bowl of meat and taking it to the pot. He had to dodge Serendipity, who was trotting after the scout, growling gleefully. In went the first portion of meat, followed by a heaping pile of greens. When he made to return to his spot and prepare more of the fish, he found three scouts had taken both the seats around the ingredients and his job, for they were chopping meat feverishly.

“I see the cavalry has arrived,” commented Deva glibly. She was balancing a stack of tin bowls and spoons in one hand, and returning his leather cord with the other. “Guess you’re not needed anymore, ser, though I appreciated the assist. Go on and rest a bit, we’ll let you and your companions have the best servings at the end.”

Thom nodded his acquiescence, stooping to pick up his weapons and sling them across his back. It was just as well, he wanted to listen in on the deliberations, anyway. Walking towards the planning table, he noted with some amusement that he could hear Deva speaking sharply behind him, driving the other scouts much harder than she had him and Bull.

Cassandra and Adaar were huddled closely together, staring down at a small paper map. The seeker held her shield up at an angle in an attempt to protect the delicate sheet from the worst of the rain. 

"How much room?" Adaar asked.

Across the table, Varric frowned, crossing his arms and leaning on a hip. "Not much, and if there's red lyrium deposits crowding the place," and they all knew the answer to that, "hardly any. Definitely not enough for both you _and _Tiny, even if you only brought Sera as backup."

"You will not do that," Cassandra snapped, in the same moment as Blackwall growled, "Are you daft?"

Adaar flicked a pointedly dispassionate glance at Varric as Thom moved in beside him. The sight of it had the dwarf chuckling as if he could hear whatever uncharitable thoughts lurked behind that patient visage--much to Thom's annoyance.

But before Blackwall could put voice to his concern, Varric sighed and said, "Relax, it was just an idea. We'll need to hit them hard and fast, and those three can make a mess of an enemy operation better than any of us. But no, there's not going to be enough room for both vashoth. And, in any case, I need to come along to guide us through that old nug trap."

"I am going as well," Cassandra insisted, huffing victoriously when Adaar inclined her head in silent acknowledgment.

"Then I am your fourth," Blackwall asserted. But the Inquisitor didn't grant that request as easily.

"Perhaps. Give me an overview of the latest, Ser Tethras." 

"Right. If Leliana's information was good, and it always is," one gloved finger jabbed at one edge of the little map, "then this door into the breached portion of Thaig Daerwin is now unblocked. The scouts got as far as here," the finger swept up several inches, through a corridor and along a cove to another entrance, all hastily sketched in black ink. "the other end of Daerwin's Mouth, before they encountered red templar forces. Hardly a single footsoldier patrolling this back way."

A single man on patrol, if that? Blackwall frowned. It made no sense, unless… "If the forces entrenched in there are anything like the ones we encountered last night…" He thought on the monstrous behemoth they had fought, stumbling aimlessly alone in the dark. Like a minstrel's moldering puppet, left hanging and forgotten, dancing in the wind on quickly fraying strings.

"Then we'll want to focus on taking down the knights first." Adaar finished. She produced a sodden red kerchief from the depths of her armor and dragged it ineffectually across her nose where it dripped upon the parchment, threatening to blot the ink.

Varric shook his head. “And anyone else who looks like they're capable of giving orders, really. Though most of those poor bastards can probably hardly receive them at this point."

"Then we should press the advantage," Cassandra said. "Create distractions, allow the Inquisitor to shift planes, safely get close enough to cut the knights down in the confusion."

Unbidden, Blackwall's heart skipped a beat, both at the memory of that unnatural power being put to lurid use against him the night before and the disturbing notion of putting Adaar into the center of danger, out from behind the safety of the warriors' impenetrable layered guard.

"I know you like to do everything the hard way, my dear Seeker, but think about it. If the templar are as far gone as we think, they're probably milling about bunched up in groups in the rooms and wider corridors. You remember how they were in the Graves." 

One corner of Adaar's lip pulled back in a sneer, probably sore at the rogue’s reminder of the trouble their enemy had given them in that maze-like forest, half-dead from red lyrium poisoning or not. 

"They're perfect targets for Sera's fire grenades: sitting ducks trapped in a pen!" Varric continued smugly. But then he hesitated, eyes sliding off to one side. "Although, admittedly, It might prove difficult to reliably find safe cover from those bombs ourselves. What with the lack of space and all."

Stinging from Varric’s jibe, Cassandra capitalized upon the dwarf’s moment of weakness to grace him with a volley of curses. He responded in snide kind, and soon the two had devolved into their usual bickering. Adaar ignored them in favor of continuing to peruse the map, though she grimaced when Cassandra, distracted, dropped her shield from its perch. 

Reaching to his back, Blackwall soon had his own shield in arm, seeking the right angle overhead to protect the map from the elements. Between his efforts and the practiced way Adaar’s hands juggled weights and shifted layers of parchment that spoke of long hours in the war room, some small shielding was again afforded the delicate thing. 

Blackwall’s eyes followed Adaar’s gloved finger, tracing its way from where the cove ended and a cave began, leading into the fortress. The inked scratchings between there and the docks at the far end of the map were hideously dense, a hopeless maze of ancient rooms, trap-filled catacombs, passageways in unknown states of disrepair, and other confused notation about the status and state of the hideout. A red templar infestation in a twisty shithole such as this one? Bloody wonderful.

Opening his mouth, Thom made to say as much, though in somewhat more polite terms, but was interrupted. 

“Food’s up, boss,” said Bull, voice languid. He balanced four bowls of pottage in his massive hands. One overflowed with pale meat, verdant greens, and golden broth, another was less than half full of the same, and all four steamed enticingly. Cassandra and Varric fell momentarily silent, mollified by the sight of hot sustenance. 

Then Bull coughed, politely, and they all jumped into action.

“Enough of this for now. We should eat and rest,” Cassandra said. Varric produced a somewhat dry handkerchief and dabbed notes and maps dry, allowing the seeker to remove the weights upon them and fold or roll them up. Frowning, Adaar opened her mouth to complain, but Cassandra brusquely overrode her. “Inquisitor, who has the watch?”

Slowly unfurling her back from what must have been a painful slouch over the table, Adaar turned to the other vashoth, stiffly rolling her shoulders. “Bull, you and Sera are splitting the watch tonight. Please ensure the mounts are readied by first light.” 

If Sera was up half the night on watch, then Thom was more or less guaranteed to be in the party to clear out the stronghold with Adaar and the others. He rubbed his hand over his mouth to smother his satisfied smile, returning his shield to his back.

“Brief Ser Blackwall on the layout of the rest of the fortress before we set out tomorrow, if you would,” she continued to Varric, stumping over to Bull and taking the heavy bowl proffered her.

Varric and Blackwall followed close behind, eager for their own portions. “Let’s take care of that in the morning. I’m just about useless for anything but inhaling this food and hitting the sack right now,” Varric said wearily, and Thom grunted in agreement. 

Having received their portions, the hungry duo began to eat where they stood. The thick chunk of buttered rye half-submerged in the broth caught Blackwall’s eye, and he took a bite from the soaked end first. It was good, greasy and hot and wonderful. Chewing, Thom watched the seeker snatch her dinner from Bull and move to hover a few paces behind Adaar. 

The Inquisitor had paused to snap up a few spoonfuls from her own bowl before waving over the requisitions officer and asking after fresh correspondence. At that request, Cassandra stiffened in anger, and turned to shoot an enormous glower in Blackwall’s direction. Thom cringed in the face of it, even as Bull and Varric snickered.

“She hasn’t looked at me like that in months,” Varric sighed in mock envy. Cassandra, having already scared the officer off, had set upon the Inquisitor. A thin finger was jabbing in Adaar’s face, underscoring the seeker’s commands to _eat_ and to _rest_ until _morning_, my lady _Inquisitor_.

Varric chuckled around a mouthful of food. “You’d better go save her, hero. You know as well as I do that if Cassandra gets it in her head that the finger isn’t getting her point across, she’ll start poking with her _dagger _instead.”

Blackwall grumbled an affirmative and started making his way towards them, careful to keep the contents of his bowl balanced. It seemed his intervention would be unnecessary, though, for Adaar was humbly acquiescing to the seeker’s demands, promising to sleep as soon as she had finished her meal. So either she was lying or, more likely, there was no new correspondence to contend with, Thom surmised. 

But that admission seemed to have satisfied the seeker, and the two broke apart, Cassandra moving to her tent and Adaar towards the mounts. He followed at a leisurely pace, spooning more pottage into his mouth as he walked.

“So, who do you think would win in a fight to the death, the boss or the seeker?” Thom could hear Bull asking behind him. 

Varric groaned. “I don’t even want to consider it… No, that’s a lie, I do: Cassandra, maybe? Shit, this is a hard one.”

The rest of the conversation was lost to the rain and the rustling of the tents in the wind as Blackwall passed them, finding Adaar settling in against a tree near the dozing horses. She had that strange, world weary look she sometimes took on when she thought she was alone, and her eyes, shining and impenetrable, stared out past the mounts and into the trees.

Thom hesitated. It felt wrong, somehow, to intrude on the Inquisitor in these oddly vulnerable moments. But then she caught his eye, lip quirking up, and nodded to her side. Even a fool such as he could not turn that invitation down. Thom moved quickly to sit near her under the tree, conscious enough in turns of the bounds of propriety and his own mawkish neediness that he cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing away before returning to his meal.

His discomfort passed quickly enough in the face of the comfortable rainy silence, the hot food, the good company. The day’s light was already receding; the sky and treeline a rapidly darkening backdrop for the pale mist of foggy rain, the white smoke coming off the fire in the center of camp. Thick bread, tender fish, and greasy broth were settling heavy and warm in Blackwall’s belly, and he mopped up the last dregs with a sigh before setting the bowl aside. 

Adaar had finished her meal as well, and she had begun, haltingly, to stretch against the tree: her neck side to side, her shoulders back and forth within the confines of her pauldrons, her back arching inside her cuirass. To think of the aches and pains she had likely accrued after nearly a day and a half in heavy plate… Thom wanted to tell her to bloody remove it already, they could keep each other safe, and he could keep her _warm_…

Instead, he took a rough swig of ale from his skin and retrieved his little whittling piece. Maker, had he always been this soft? Out came his dagger as well, and he squinted down at the bit of wood in the low light, trying to get a bead on his progress.

Then there was a very soft woosh, a tingle running the tip of his ear, and suddenly Thom’s gloved hands, his dagger, the wood, were lit in soft orange light. Adaar had a little plume of magefire floating in her palm, and she was looking at his project with restful interest.

Swallowing, he set to work. Truth was, Thom no longer had the slightest idea what he was working towards, only that he held her attention. He took any opportunity to pause in his whittling to glance at her, her heavily blinking eyes, her softened brow.

It felt almost as though it was his heart and not fresh cut pine in his hands, laid bare by his blade, warmed by her magic.

Bloody void. He was a soppy saccharine fool who had no place in the front lines of a war for the world. But there were worse things to be, worse places as well. 

Besides, she believed in him. He wouldn’t let her down again.


End file.
